


Remembrance of the Wicked

by Steviethepoptart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cigarettes, Mentions of drugs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3650118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steviethepoptart/pseuds/Steviethepoptart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after "His Last Vow", Sherlock has been placed under a sort of house arrest by Mycroft. Chain smoking and sulking ensues, that is until 221B receives an unwelcome visitor...<br/>Canon Divergence, Characters withheld for plot purposes. Reviews mean faster updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Start of Something Vile

**Remembrance of the Wicked**

The sky had been darkened for hours, the flat was silent, almost as though nothing had changed. As if the world of a few select individuals was not crumbling before their eyes. The carpet still showed scorch marks from over two years ago, the fire place smelled strongly of ammonia. The only thing that would give the impression of change was the atmosphere of solitude, regret. Sherlock had left the flat unlit upon his return, able to see easily by the London skyline radiating through the windows. Staring out over the city, the detective took a moment to go over the events of the day before. He had fucked up majorly and nearly been exiled for it. Shooting Magnussen will never have been a mistake and he refuses to think of it as such but the consequences are lamentable. Stuck in his flat until his brother says otherwise, on complete lock down when he should be looking into Moriarty's seeming return from the grave. It's dreadful! What the hell is he supposed to do, cooped up here like a scolded puppy? Mycroft had sent his assistant to collect all of Sherlock's equipment and the stash of cocaine he had kept hidden, or so he had thought, behind a false panel in his wardrobe.

 Groaning in frustration, the detective opened one of the windows, cursing the lack of balcony to climb down from, and lit a cigarette, sitting in the chair of the desk so that he could lean out and watch the street below for anything to occupy his time.

 A pack and a half later, Sherlock found himself watching the sun rise over a foggy city, eyes red with four days worth of sleep deprivation and throat sore from not bothering to get a drink since he was returned to his flat. Oddly blank of frustration, probably due to exhaustion, the detective made his way to the sink, fetching himself a glass of water and downing it in only a few gulps. Sighing in relief, he almost missed the sound of the stairs creaking under a light foot. Almost.

 Thinking quickly, Sherlock looked around for anything that could be of use in case he needed to defend himself. Who ever was coming up the stairs was unfamiliar, John would be limping slightly by now, Mycroft would be heavier, Anthea would be lighter, Mary, Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't bother sneaking. No, whoever it was most likely was not here for a friendly cuppa. Cursing mentally, Sherlock realized he had no weapons, knives, scalpels, anything useful was confiscated. Mycroft had supposedly placed security on the building but obviously they hadn't done their jobs.

 Just seconds before the door leading to the kitchen opened, Sherlock dropped silently behind the counter, using the blurred reflection in the kettle to watch the intruder. Said intruder was a man of 1.8 meters in height and had a thin but muscled build. Whomever it was had sandy blond hair and a fair complexion. Any other information was impossible to gather from the fogged reflection of the kettle. As the man looked about, turning almost completely towards the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, said detective saw a chance and went for it. Keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, Sherlock took a leap at the man, bringing his elbow to connect with the mans skull, using the weight behind his now falling body to put extra force behind the blow. The man's left temple came into harsh contact with the tile floor of 221B and he was unconscious almost instantly. Sherlock took the opportunity to take in his features better, military cut hair, gaunt face with a strong jaw line, a faint scar on his chin. Was he working for Moriarty? He certainly looked the type, clearly ex military, probably a sniper, American, ruthless mentality... suddenly Sherlock was thankful that he was able to debilitate the man , he doubtless would have been overpowered if he had not had the element of surprise.

 Deciding not to stick around for the man to come back to his senses, Sherlock took off down the stairs, taking note as he went that Mrs. Hudson had gone out and texted her on his way out the door to go to the police station and only come back if she had an escort and even then, only if she absolutely must return before it was cleared by Mycroft. Hailing a taxi and giving sharp instructions to take him to Scotland Yard, Sherlock texted Mycroft explaining the situation and John, asking him to bring Mary and meet him at the station. If this was really Moriarty's doing, there was no telling who he would go after once he realized Sherlock had slipped through his fingers. After this, he turned his phone off so as to keep himself from being distracted. He needed to think. But first, “This is not the way to Scotland Yard.” He glared at the cabbie through the rear view mirror, another cab ride gone wrong? Really? He should really take the tube more often...

“Ah don't be so cold Shirley, I missed you!” And with that simple sentence, those nine words, Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice. “Regardless, it seems you've been a bad boy Shirles, and bad boys can always do with a time out...”

 


	2. Audience With a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick look at John, Mary and Lestrade and of course, drugs for Sherlock. If cocaine use is a trigger for anyone please do not read.

Audience With a King

Last Time:

“Ah don't be so cold Shirley, I missed you!” And with that simple sentence, those nine words, Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice. “Regardless, it seems you've been a bad boy Shirles, and bad boys can always do with a time out...”

 

John stared at the door as though it would burst open at any moment in a flourish of Belstaff coat curly hair and just a bit to much ego. Needless to say, Sherlock was the only one contacted who had not arrived at the station and no one knew what to make of the situation. Lestrade stood against the wall behind his desk, arms crossed and the fingers on one hand dancing over his arm while he stared at his phone in apparent irritation. Mary sat cradling her swollen belly in the desk chair, her back propped on the desk behind her as she watched John, seemingly deep in thought. All the while, John was pacing to and fro in the small room, from the door to the desk and back again. Occasionally, he would stop and pull out his phone, always returning the device to his pocket with a disappointed sigh in the end.

After nearly half an hour of impatient agony, the door opened and everyone's heads whipped up at breakneck speeds, hoping for some, _any_ news as to what the hell was going on. John and Lestrade groaned in disappointment when Mycroft stepped into the room, ever present umbrella clenched in one fist but, despite this, the elder Holmes held a look of iron calm over his features. Carefully, and far to gently, Mycroft sat his umbrella next to the door, another sign of trouble, and took in everyone in the room.

“I see my brother took the time to notify you all then.” Even his voice was unnaturally soft, giving away his rage, though to whom it was directed, no one could yet guess. He stepped into the room, closely followed by Anthea, or what ever her name is this week, who made sure to secure the door behind herself before sitting on the corner of the Detective Inspectors desk, smiling serenely at Mary, who gave an awkward twitch of the mouth in return before returning her gaze to Mycroft.

Never moving his watch from Mycroft, John cleared his throat and answered the unspoken question of 'Just how much do you know about the situation?'

“Sherlock sent me a text about thirty minutes before you arrived informing me that the flat had been broken into, rather bad guard you pay for by the way, but he had fought him and won, leaving the man unconchious. He then shared his suspicions that the man is probably associated with whoever aired that video of Moriarty and that I should come here to report to Lestrade and bring Mary with me to wait for Sherlock to join us.” Barely wasting a breath and standing like a true captain, John continued with a question of his own, “Now, I assume you haven't just come for conversation on what you already know, so, what have you found out?”

nodding almost absently, the older Holmes brother stared at the corner for a moment, most likely figuring out how to phrase his reply. After a moment of silence, he raised his head “I got much the same information as yourself, doctor, and took it upon myself to investigate the flat and find out what I could about the situation before coming here. Sherlock had been smoking, leaning out of the window, got up to make himself tea and heard his assailant ascending the stairs. Sherlock had dropped behind the counter and had to surprise his attacker to get the upper hand, the man is both larger in frame and heavier than Sherlock and a man of military training so there was little chance of my brother besting him in a proper fight. Once his opponent was unconscious, Sherlock contacted you and I before leaving the flat, the landlady is out for the weekend so he didn't bother with her. After that, I had to rely on CCTV footage to tell me what happened. Unfortunately, all I could gather from that was Sherlock got into a cab and shortly after, seemed to become agitated before the cameras lost sight of the car.” once he had finished his statement, Mycroft looked everyone in the room in the eyes meaningfully, waiting for them to come to the same conclusion he had. John, unsurprisingly, was the first to prove the reward of spending so much time with Sherlock Holmes.

“So, you're pretty sure that Moriarty had gotten hold of him then?”

A nod was given in return, Mycroft's mask never slipping once since he put his umbrella down. Silently, and ever calm, he moved over to a chair on the opposite side of the desk, moving it so his back was to the wall and he could see everyone in the room, he waited for a reply from John.

The doctor sighed in exasperation, dragging a hand over his face before even thinking about saying anything. He was suddenly so frustrated at everything, himself for not being more watchful of his best friend, the man who had just saved his life yet again, at Mycroft for not properly protecting his brother, and most of all at Sherlock for being daft enough to get a cab rather than asking his brother for a damned car. Now, the man could be anywhere with any number of things happening to him, with little chance of them finding him without some sort of clue which was highly unlikely considering the method of his capture.

Growling under his breath in defeat, John said the one thing that everyone in the room knew but did not want to admit, “Well, we will just have to wait for a message or some sort of sign then.” with that, he took a seat against the wall, planting his tired face in his hands and mentally preparing himself for the coming days, and hoping with all of his body that Sherlock would turn up alright, no matter how unlikely that was to happen.

* * *

  Waking up in a haze of cocaine was not unfamiliar to Sherlock but in no way was it a usual sensation. Despite this, Sherlock found himself smiling faintly, not bothering to be concerned with his situation just yet and simply enjoying the feeling of the cocaine flooding his senses, lifting him up from the dark mood he had found himself drowning in for the majority of the time since he had faked his suicide. The waves of euphoria crashing over him was enough that it took him nearly a full ten minutes to remember that Mycroft took his supply... so how could he be high? The answer to this question came soon after when footsteps echoed around whatever room he had found himself in, judging by the sound, the room was of medium size, cement walls and floor... as the footsteps came to a halt Sherlock cracked his eyes open and was immediately reminded of what was happening, and that sure as hell put a damper on the pleasant buzz swimming around his skull. 

  Moriarty stood in front of him, looking far to happy for this to turn out well. While noting his captor, Sherlock took in the fact that he himself was not wearing his coat or a shirt, just his pants and shoes, his arms were secured firmly behind his back and he was propped in a chair, quite an uncomfortable one at that... His attention snapped back to Moriarty as the other man cleared his throat, looking impatient. Had he asked him a question? Sherlock couldn't think clearly enough to know for certain. He decided it didn't matter when the other man began speaking a moment later.

  "Enjoying yourself then Sherlock? I did rather well in getting you here without issues if I say so myself. Rather proud of that. Wasn't very nice of you you know, lying to me. I thought we had a deal. I suppose it was fairly obvious though." once he realized that Sherlock was just staring blankly in his direction, too muddled by the high to stay focused for long, he growled and yanked Sherlock out of the corner by his hair, eliciting a shocked yelp from the detective. Sherlock was sweating heavily and shivering, looking pale and strung out, the man was breathing irregularly by this point and began to giggle and babble incoherently, gaining a disgusted sneer from Jim. Moriarty then shoved him to the floor, kicking him in the jaw, the strike jerking his head to the opposite direction and splitting the skin of his cheek. Already turning towards the door, Jim signaled to his companions, the blond man Sherlock had fought earlier and a stocky man with black hair and a round face. Just before shutting the door behind him he called back, "I want him alive. Drop him off at a hospital when you're finished and don't let anyone see you come or go." With that Jim took one last glace at Sherlock before humming and pulling the door shut behind himself.

 


End file.
